Creep of the Day

I love my family, but, like most families, mine is kind of crazy. A couple of years ago my grandma and mom came out to visit me and I was thrilled to be able to show them around my city.

My grandma’s health had been on the downswing lately and although she could walk, it was painful and she couldn’t go very far, so we would often use a wheelchair and a rental car to get around.

And it worked really well most of the time. However, it quickly put in relief just how non-wheelchair friendly my city is. Handicap parking? Pshht good luck, sucker. Ramps into buildings? LOL.

So when we decided to go out to dinner at a southern-style restaurant in my neighborhood, we clumsily pulled the wheelchair out of the car, rolled up to the entrance with grandma, and were delighted to see that they had a short ramp into the restaurant.

It was a beautiful day, one of those first tastes of Spring kind of days, where it’s finally balmy and people flock outdoors. The restaurant’s patio was pretty busy, but with plenty of tables and the weather absolutely perfect we all decided we needed to be out there too.

As we rolled up to the hostess stand, the hostess greeted us cheerfully and I asked for “3 for the patio, please” and then continued to follow her gaze to the entrance to the patio and the big ass step down to it. Realizing this small, but unnecessary hurdle, I quickly revised our request.

“You know what, it’s actually fine if we sit in here.”

“No, if you want to sit on the patio, we will get you a table on the patio” the hostess said with resolve.

“Really, it’s ok. Inside will be fine.”

“No, we will get you on the patio.” She pressed and then went to go speak with a couple of guys before coming back and saying that we should go back out the front door to the patio entrance.

Ok…maybe this will be easier than it looks, I thought. We wheel grandma back out and realize the entrance to the patio is blockaded by a table of 8 sitting at hightops.

As I started to wonder if there was another entrance, I see the hostess and one of her coworkers come out and speak to the table. Motioning over to the three of us standing outside the gate. As the table looks over, they all collectively begin to nod with a mission to help. They all — all 8 people — put down their silverware and drinks and get up and start moving the table out of the way.

Finally, the hostess is able to open the gate to the patio. We wheel grandma in up to a table just a few feet behind where the 8 top was. The hostess has moved the chair out of the way so we can wheel grandma right up to it — easy peezy. And then, as she smiles and asks — how’s this? somewhat rhetorically. Grandma goes, “I’d rather have that one.” Then proceeds to get the fuck up out of her wheelchair and WALK around multiple tables, chairs, and patio-eaters watching the situation to … not the table next to it…or the table two spots away…but the table in the back corner of the patio. The furthest fucking table from where we started.

Ohhhhhh my goddd. The hostess’ face drops. The patio-goers look a little confused. And meanwhile Mom and I just follow grandma to the table in the corner. “Yeah….this will work fine.” We agree, exchanging slightly embarrassed looks as we realize the lengths the staff went to when all along grandma probably could’ve walked down that step in the restaurant.

Telling this story to a friend later on, she told me I should’ve screamed, “IT’S A MIRACLE!!!” when grandma got out of the wheelchair to make the situation a win for everyone. If only I was that quick on my toes.

This one’s fresh off the fucking presses, so buckle up for the almost real-time (with a 4 hour lag) tale. I’ll begin with the setting. I live in an english-basement. That’s a fancy fucking term for saying that I live in the basement of someone’s house that was converted into an apartment. While this means I relish in having a huge ass studio in the middle of the city for an affordable price, it also comes with its downsides. I experience the occasional mouse (which I believe is either on steroids or really a rat) and my vitamin D is clinically low due to the lack of sunlight from my 2’x3′ window. And, because the entrance to my studio is from the back of the house and not the front, I also have no mailbox and so I have to trust my landlords to kindly deliver my mail to me.

Despite only having to travel down a flight of stairs to drop my mail off, my landlords are not exactly the quickest or the most respectful of my mail. There have been 2-3 week periods where I have mysteriously received no mail at all. I have twice received mail with music notes scrawled on the back of the envelopes. And once after my father sent me texts asking if I got a package he had sent, I found out they had kept my flower delivery upstairs for a solid week–despite the side of the box reading 1-800-Flowers…they somehow did not feel any urgency in bringing them to my apartment door. As a result I’ve gotten a little crazy about mail, especially deliveries, that I am expecting. I warn them in advance it’s coming and if I don’t see the package within 1-2 hours after I know it has arrived I’m all up in the grill asking where it is. Hey! Getting a package is like Christmas. Don’t delay that joy for me.

That brings me to today. I had ordered a new purse (after the strap ripped the fuck off my go-to-purse) and knew it was on its way. After checking the status and seeing that it had been delivered to the house yesterday, I quickly checked the place they typically leave me packages and was bummed to see nothing was there. Realizing I hadn’t heard them stomping around like bulls at the rodeo in awhile I figured, well maybe they’ve been gone, I’ll check the front stoop. I took off, heading toward the front of the house, and once I got to the front stoop I was thrown off to find a man was sitting with a cup of coffee in his hand on the first few stairs. He didn’t look homeless. In fact he was wearing a nice peacoat sort of jacket with khakis and dress hoes.

That’s kind of fucking weird I thought to myself, but mmmaaayyybbeee he’s a friend that is waiting for my landlord to come home? Fuck if I know. He was kind of hunched down (maybe looking at his feet) and didn’t seem phased by me as I stood in front of him. So as I saw the package at the top of the stairs, I quickly ran past him up the stairs and almost the moment I ran past I heard something splash and see his entire milky coffee drink begin spilling all over his shoe and the ground in front of him. Fuck, maybe I startled him.

But as the coffee began to pour out all over the side walk, suddenly he fell back against the stairs–while making snoring/choking sounds and shaking (or what I thought was convulsing). I grabbed the package and ran back down the stairs thinking he passed out sleeping. “Sir!” I yelled and looked to see his eyes open, but rolled back up in his head. WHAT IN THE FUCK!?

I had no idea what to do and was sure he was having either a seizure or heart attack. WHAT DO I DO? Do I leave him there to go get my cell phone? Is he really choking? Do I need to save some strangers life by smacking my mouth to his and trying to do the CPR shit I learned in my SafeSitter class when I was 12? WHAT IN THE FUCK WHAT IN THE FUCK WHAT IN THE FUCK?! He was still snore-choking as I began to look around and see a couple across the street. I yelled at them “Do you have your cellphones?!” “I’m sorry, but there’s this man that just passed out and started convulsing on the stairs to my house! Can you call 9-1-1?”

They looked seriously confused and started to walk over. The guy began pulling his cell phone out and then looking back at the guy on the stairs said I think…he’s awake. He yelled across to him “Sir! Are you okay?” and to this Mr. Scare-the-Shit-Out-of-Me starts reviving himself as he responds “Huh? What?” Guy with the phone repeats, “Sir, are you okay? Do you want us to call an ambulance?” “Oh no, I’m fine” Mr Scare-the-Shit-Out-Of-Me says now miraculously revived from this crazy ass episode. “Sir do you know you’re on someone’s front steps?” cell phone guy adds. “Oh yeahhhh..*garglemumblegarg*” he responds. “What?” cell phone guy asks, hoping for clarity. “Mmmhmmm yyyyeah…*garglemumblegarg*”

The couple looks kind of confused and at me. I’m slightly embarrassed now for calling in the troops for this weird man who now appears perfectly fine. I awkwardly say…well my apartment is off the back entrance so I’m not too concerned about him being out here…I guess…as the couple awkwardly nods. I apologize and keep saying what the fuck as we part ways. It’s now 3 hours later and I still need to check if homeboy is still out there (I can’t see anything through my 2’x3′ window, but then again it’s a 2’x3′ window…). So that happened.

After Rob’s Creep Palace I kept hitting duds housing-wise and finally thought I’d found a good lead in a group house with two roommates looking for a third. Reasonably priced and super close to a stop on the subway line I use for work I set up a time to meet. Walking to the place after work I was happy to find a large townhouse super close to the subway that looked relatively decent outside. I rang the doorbell and before I knew it a lean, red-haired woman around my age opened up the door, introduced herself as Heather*, and welcomed me into the house.

She started showing me around beginning with a cozy living room with random old furniture and bookcases followed by a huge open dining room and then a small kitchen. In the kitchen she excitedly told me that the kitchen would pretty much be ours since Steve doesn’t really use it. Nonchalantly she proceeded to say Steve has his own kitchen set-up in his room. Well, that’s kind of fucking odd, I thought to myself. I continued my mini tour and began to wonder if I could really feel comfortable in this house. It was cute in the downstairs, but definitely had a sparsely furnished, creeky, haunted house type vibe going on that left my just a bit unease. The woman showing my around then led me upstairs to show me what my room would look like.

At the top of the stairs she pointed to the right and noted her room was at that end of the landing, then directly ahead she said this is the bathroom for everyone. She walked in and pulled a string attached to the lightbulb in the middle of the ceiling to turn the lights on. As the lights went on I quickly realized it was not only a stark, but dirty bathroom. Shit looked like it would be found in a haunted prison. At that point my mind was screaming “ABORT MISSION” and I pasted an awkward smile on my face throwing in a few “uh huhs” and “oh okays” until I could make a break for it.

Leaving the bathroom, she pointed to the door right next to it and noted that’s Steve’s room. He’s in there most of the time. Then on the opposite wall she lead me into what would be my bedroom. As she flicked on the lights I saw a creepy ass twin bed with SHIT all over it. Everything from old creepy, weird toys, to books and outdoorsy shit like tennis rackets. On a table and in the corner of a room were boxes with old clothing falling out of them. But the creepiest fucking thing of all was that the bed was pushed up against a door that had been bolted shut and had a bookshelf installed across the top of it. “This would be cleaned up before you moved in, she noted.” But I didn’t give a flying fuck about that point. “Uhm where does that door lead?” I stammered out. “Oh, that door? Hmm, I’m not sure actually.”

At this point I hear a door creep open and she goes, “This is my roommate Steve!” Steve, who is clearly 45 or older and sporting a long white creepy beard, glasses, and awkward skiddishness that embodies what I imagine the lovechild of Gandolf and Frankenstein to look like. Oh, FUCK no. Mentally at war between my emotional response and need to be polite, I quickly introduced myself. I imagine if it weren’t for social norms this is the point that I would run from the fucking house screaming like a cartoon character.

“Steve,” Heather asked. “Do you know where that door leads?”
“Oh, yeah. That goes to my bedroom.” He replied as if that was the most normal shit ever.
“Oh, really, wow!” Heather said like that was also the most normal shit ever.

Me? I’m sure I looked completely weirded the fuck out. They proceeded to lead me back downstairs and try to get my thoughts as I tried to lower their expectations and put the kibosh on our time together. Finally I thanked them for showing me around and got the fuck out of there. Lesson learned: if the ad just lists “fun, easy going, roommates” and doesn’t mention even the age range (e.g. roommates in their 20s-30s) and you are somewhat disinclined to share a wall with a creepy 45 year old man…you may want to ask that in your first email about the apartment. Also, consider asking, “Is there a bolted door between my room and the 45 year old mans?” or “Is there oodles of creepy shit sitting on creepy furniture in the room.” Apparently none of these questions are that irrational.

Sometimes I wish it was okay to flat out screech at someone when they walk out of a bathroom without washing their hands. Like when the terminator exterminator came to my apartment last fall and after telling me all about the inner workings of the mouse mind (like use gloves when you set out the traps because if they smell your “human smell” they’ll avoid it) proceeded to ask if he could use the bathroom in my tiny studio apartment. Homeboy walked in with fucking plastic, medical gloves on…flushed the toilet…and without running any water (washing his fucking hands), walked straight the fuck out with his plastic gloves still on. Apparently touching your penis with the gloves before setting traps doesn’t count. And sadly he’s not alone – whether in the workplace or at some other public places I see people all the time stroll out without washing their hands. Each time I wish I could run up to them and let my feelings out, meaning this:
And then I want to come back and seriously ask them:
C’mon people, wash your hands. It is not that hard.

Upon realizing that I haven’t posted on here in what seems like ages I took advantage of my lazy Sunday to go to a coffee shop and begin piecing together the remnants of long ago started, but never completed blog posts. While working I kept thinking about the fact that I’ve actually been relatively creep free lately. Aside from the standard “hey grrrrllll” when I walk to the store or train station, my creeper magnetism appears to have lost its mojo. Admittedly, I’m pretty okay with that – I don’t particularly enjoy feeling uncomfortable and weirded out – however, it does mean that this blog suffers for it and instead winds up with images of fruit that I find creepy and entertaining (sorry ya’all!).

After cranking out a post that had long been stuck in my draft box, I finally decided to head home. I opted for the sleepier, more neighborhood route and found myself casually strolling down the street, looking at row houses, and thinking about the cold glass of water I’d have when I got home. As I began crossing to the other side of the street, I heard a woman yell “Excuse me!”

Not thinking much of it. I kept walking. “Excuse me!” I heard again and continued to keep walking convinced it wasn’t me. “Excuse me, ma’m!” Finally wondering who the fuck this person is yelling at I turn around and see two well dressed women running across the street waving at me. Hmm…maybe I dropped something?

They approach me and again say “Excuse me! We’re not from around here. We’re from X neighborhood, can we ask you a question?” Oh, okay, you’re lost. “Sure.”

“This is Shania,” she says gesturing to her friend “and I’m Cindy. We’re planning seminars in the area.”

“Okay…” What the fuck, I thought you were lost now you’re trying to sign me up for shit.

“They’re about history and music and language and how all of it provides evidence for what’s said in the Bible.”

Fuck. At that I said “Sorry, I’m not interested–best of luck” and started to turn away.

“Oh you’re not interested?”

“No, sorry.”

They looked surprisingly crestfallen, although I can only imagine this is the standard response they get. I began walking away and I hear, “Can I ask you one more question?”

Awe fuck. Why do I feel guilty enough to turn around? “Uhm sure.”

“Have you ever heard of the female image of Jesus?”

OMG ITS THE FUCKING FEMALE JESUS PEOPLE AGAIN! WHAT THE FUCK? How are these crazies invading my fucking neighborhood now?

In disbelief, I quickly said “I’m sorry I’m not interested” and walked away in utter disbelief that I’ve now been approached twice by this same random shit.

Not gonna lie. I definitely looked back at least twice to make sure those weirdos weren’t following me. My head kept spinning with AHHHH FEMALE JESUS PEOPLE STRIKE AGAIN! AHHH! Honestly, is there something about me that screams “I wanna know about female jesus?” or “Sign me up for your cult-like religious sect NOW” or is it just my creeper magnetism mojo still bubbling strongly underneath the surface? Not to mention I clearly have a lot of work left to do on my whole “be more of an asshole” thing.

Update:So I’ve been trying to research this further to find out who the f these people are and apparently it’s not that Lightning shit, but not too far from it. This is pretty much the same thing that has happened to me: http://www.therowboat.com/2008/08/do-you-believe-in-mother-god/.

There’s also this, which argues that its cult-like and notes a teaching was “black people are cursed” – I’m not sure what to believe about this shit, but I’m totally weirded out by it and these people approaching me: http://www.examiningthewmscog.com/archives/missionary-ron-ramos-explains-why-he-left-the-wmscog-after-12-years/

You know how I mentioned that new Craigslist apartment had 1.5 baths? That the full bath – the one with the shower – was right inside the entrance to my new roommate’s room? Well, that’s where the next surprise was. The first time I went to take a shower, I awkwardly knocked and hearing nothing went in (like she had advised) and bolted into the bathroom. Flicking on the light and shutting the door I began to look around and realize…this fucking thing hadn’t been cleaned…possibly ever. The sink was coated with make-up and dust and god only knows what else based on yesterdays experience and the floor…the floor was covered in hair. I don’t even think there was a shower mat. Just hair. And this roommate had long hair. Like I-wanna-challenge-rapunzel’s-ass-to-a-hair-duel-one-day hair. The bottom of the shower curtain was covered in mold and the shower itself wasn’t much better. When you got out you basically tried to touch as little ground as possible…strategically placing and standing on your discarded clothes in the hopes of not getting mystery things stuck to your foot. It was fucking nast. Eventually I began breaking down and trying to change things. I bought a shower curtain and replaced it…to which she told me abruptly after…well you didn’t have to do that…I was going to do that.

It seemed like each day I was finding something more disturbing and weird than the last until eventually I was noticing everything including her total lack of regard for people. A few examples, you ask?

“Yeah my friend is a vegetarian so when I’m around her I get the bloodiest pieces of meat and just tear it up in front of her.”

When Craigslist hunting for what she called the “living room roommate” she adamantly stressed that she wanted a commuter roommate, but would “settle” for someone more permanent figuring “well I’ll just kick them out when I find the commuter.”

She didn’t hold back either…“I know you’re new here and stuff, but this city really isn’t that great. You’ll see.” (To which I had to resist replying, “WTF shithead, go clean your toilet!”)

Eventually she found the “living room roommate” who wasn’t a commuter, but turned out to be pretty cool. Her and I began to note that shit was nasty up in there and far from perfect – but similarly for the price and location it wasn’t the worst place to be.

As tension mounted, however, I began to peruse Craigslist in my spare time. But before I got too far Mamie suddenly approached me in the hall toward the end of October. “So….I’m going to do a residency next month in [Enter Foreign Country].”

“Wow, congratulations!” I said, genuinely thinking it sounded like a great opportunity.
“Yeah, sooo I’m moving out.”
“Oh…so you’ll be gone a few weeks?”
“No, I’m moving out and you or our other roommate need to either sign the lease as the primary leasee or find a new place to live.”*Huh?*
“I mean I’m still trying to figure things out…nothing is for sure right now, but I wanted to let you know.”

A few days later, realizing we had conflicting stories – my roommate and I approached Mamie to find out what the deal was. She seemed annoyed that we were asking her about this and then told us she had already told us we needed to sign the lease or move out and we were down to oh, 3 weeks or less before the lease expired. The date was also during a conference I was scheduled to attend States away.

That’s when I went ape shit on my lease and realized it said it was a lease from California (yeah, rookie move not reading that shit better – but I was desperate). However, reading it multiple times through I found a golden nugget of information – she had to give us at least 25 full days notice before she could make us move. Eventually my roommate and I knocked on her door to figure things out and I told her what the lease said. She was pissed and disagreed, but after reading it over again she rightfully gave us a few extra days before we had to be out. Of course noting that it was a huge inconvenience for her as she did so.

As the weeks went by and we began searching for apartments ourselves – quite desperately – eventually it came time to move out and luckily my roommate and I had found places to live. A few days before we had to move out, I woke up before work – lightly knocked on her bathroom door like I always did each morning and then hearing nothing proceeded to walk in keeping my eyes to the ground and preparing to bolt into the bathroom. The only thing is as I kept my eyes down I realized there were 6 feet lined up in a row across the bedroom floor. A little freaked out and figuring she had friends over or something I ran into the bathroom showered and bolted out of that joint and headed to work.

When I arrived home I made the connection that the 3 pairs of feet I saw were her mother, father, and little brother who were now invading our apartment. And while they were nice and would smile at you, they would not say a word to you and instead spent 90% of their time walking between her bedroom and cooking things in her kitchen.

So they had arrived to move her out. Wow, that’s nice. I thought to myself as I also noted that were kind of early – we had 3-4 days until the lease expired. Maybe they want to get an early start, I figured. But no – they didn’t instead of getting an early start they literally just cooked shit the whole fucking time they were there. According to my other roommate on the very last day and day of move-out all they did was “cook fucking hot pockets all day”

It was just plain weird. Mamie also told us she would have to leave earlier than us, but yet when move out day came I got home from work and her and her family were still putzing around. I ended up cleaning my entire room and luckily my other roommate offered to drive me and my minimal amount of shit over to my new apartment. We kept seeing Mamie and her family take trips down to her car every time we’d pass we would smile, but they would say nothing and walk right by us.

On the ride to my new place my roommate and I recounted the many ways Mamie was pretty much a giant asshole and a strange cat. Like the fact that are apartment had one fucking cart to help people move things, but despite watching her and I go back and forth (and not using the cart themselves) never taking their shit off of it or offering it to either of us. Or as my roommate said, the fact that despite being a med student Mamie wasn’t aware you could eat the red part of an apple or do online banking.

Needless to say, although the last month was crazy, we both sighed with relief at being done with the weird ass living situation and Mamie’s shittiness (literally and figuratively).

With a month to find a new place to live after the Mamie situation fell apart, I went back to what I know best: checking Craigslist incessantly and lowering my standards by the minute in hopes of finding a place before the clock ran out.

You would think I would be a pro at finding apartments by that point, but I was not. I hated it with a passion and to top it off — in the city I live in you have to be quick to the draw on anything you see that looks remotely decent. This is not a strength of my dawdling, indecisive self, so often when I would find something I liked it’d slip through my hands faster than all get out.

That’s what happened with dream apartment – a nice studio in a secured building, where the woman trying to sublet it was also including all of her furniture for a flat fee (which sounds weird, but it was nice furniture and excellently decorated). Plus she was moving out exactly when I was needing to move in. I was totally sold, even willing to move on the apartment – but unfortunately so were the other 20 women who showed up with similar feelings and the apartment owner gave it away on a first come, first serve basis.

Moving on I began to start looking at anything and noticing another small studio, within my price range open up — I immediately contacted the lister, Rob, and set-up a time to come by within the next couple hours. It was marketed as an apartment, so when the address led me to a townhouse, I thought it was a little strange and immediately texted boyfriend “If I don’t call you in 15 minutes, I’m dead. Here’s the address I’m at…” Upon walking in I was slightly more comforted to realize there were multiple numbered doors/apartments in the hallway and it seemed a little less creepy. Then knocking on the door to the apartment I was greeted by Rob…who I thought would be a 20-30 year old dude. Rob was a dude closer to his 40s or 50s with completely white shoulder-lenght hair and a hippy-like vibe. “Hey!” he said, “come on in!” *Well, fuck…looks like I am going to get murdered*

I awkwardly moseyed in and immediately, at his demonstration, walked up the small 5-6 step staircase up to a landing where there were 2 doors, one normal and the other a giant ass wood door with spikes all over it that looked like it was lifted from King Asskickers Castle. *What in the fuck* My head began spinning as I started eyeing the exit, plotting my options for escape.

“Actually I’m just wrapping up with someone, do you mind going up the next set of stairs and waiting for me there? I’ll be done shortly.”

“Urg….okay…”

I awkwardly proceeded up the next flight of stairs and wound up in what I can only describe as a living space with an identity crisis. It was part tropical, part ultra modern, part 80s, and part oriental flavored living room and kitchen decor. What I really should call it was “Fucking weird.” This was no Pier 1 Imports shit going on. There were huge fucking tropical plants and trees every-fucking-where. Some so high and huge as fuck they graced the heights of the 12ft arched ceiling. Weird, leather 80s couches and chairs mixed in with some oriental desks and then to top it off some fucking weird ass music playing – you know to set that weird ass mood a little more. I literally stood at the edge of the stair case about ready to chuck an oriental vase at homeboys head if he pulled any weird shit. Granted he acted super nice and relatively normal – but this creepster pad was freaking me the fuck out. And the realization that the apartment was somewhere within it — that in order to get to my place, I’d have to enter a part of his house – was enough to make me know this was a ‘fuck no I’m not living here situation.”

My case for “fuck no” only strengthened when I began to notice all of the creepy as fuck artwork around the place. A dash of naked people, sprinkle of metal robot sculptures, and a touch of weird drapery art hangings added to the weirdness of the space. But what really tripped me up and had me staring the rest of the time I was up there was this fucking huge 4×6 foot tile mosaic of two lion-like bodies with the mane like squiggled rays of sunshine shooting out of the … wait…that’s no lion face…nope that is a fucking human face – straight up molds of human faces used for the lion faces. As I stared at it perplexed, I began to realize with 99.9% certainty that one of those faces was Rob’s.

Creepy Ass Artwork

I still see visions of that creepy ass piece of art and needless to say I was on the verge of bolting out of that weird ass joint when I heard the door open up downstairs some guy say “Thanks, man” and then Rob appear midway up the stairs saying, “ready?”

Urg okay. He led me down to the platform I had walked in on and instead of walking me through the spike ass door he led me through the other one. There was literally a 10ft long hallway which only got worse by the minute. It started with the door to a dirty ass map-shower curtained bathroom followed by closet doors that opened up and had some shelves up top and then a counter with a sink and a burner on it. *No fucking way my mind kept railing* He then showed me the bedroom, which was basically a 12×12 space with a murphy bed – you know one of those creepy ass things you see in scary movies where the bed folds up into the wall (I imagine Dracula would have one in modern day), and fucking junk all over the room – TVs, table tops, etc.

“Yeah it’s a great space, the only thing is there isn’t much room for cooking.” Rob noted thoughtfully as he showed me around.

Finally seeing an excuse to get me the fuck out of there. I said “Oh, no! Yeah I really love cooking. I need to be able to cook. I just don’t think its going to work.” feigning that my inner Julia Child, could not handle such a dire cooking situation when in reality I”m happy with a microwave burrito for half of my dinners.

I quickly said thanks and tried to keep from running out of that creep ass place. As I wondered how in the fuck I get myself into those situations, I started to think about where I’d have to go next to find an apartment. To be continued…

Sidenote: Where I currently live, I often walk by this townhouse and just stare at it knowing the creepiness that awaits inside. It’s a really bad, creepy habit on my part. But as you can see from this post, I’m still not over the creepiness of that place.